


Tick.  Tick.  Tick.

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22184857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Time.  She is a brutal mistress.And Prompto has no choice but to follow in her wake.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Tick.  Tick.  Tick.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ninemoons42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/gifts).



> Canon complaint with the events of the main game. You know what that means, don't you :)

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

His only method of measuring the time without driving himself crazy. Listening to each and every second as it ticks on by, too long and too short and far too many for his liking. A week ago he'd have the watch up at his ear in order to hear its tune, but not now. Not with the apartment dark and muted, only the bare essentials of electrical appliances plugged in and turned on.

 _Tick. Tick._ _Tick._

Amazing what a week can do to one's visage - such a short period of time without shaving and yet Ignis looks _scruffy_. Prompto wants to run his fingers over that stubble, learn the texture of it, how prickly it is, tease Ignis about his rapid transformation into a porcupine. But such playfulness has no room here when his boyfriend is ill and weakened so, little more than a bag of quivering bones and pitiful moans as the painkillers wear off.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Prompto tracks the passage of time because Ignis can't, marks the first signs of discomfort setting in (under the four hour mark) and waits another half hour before asking how he's doing. The stubborn bastard tries waving him off, every time, but if he was fine he wouldn't be taking refuge from the world on Prompto's sofa, burrowing under the blankets when he's too cold and throwing them off when he's too hot with his shirt to follow, warm and _sticky_ with sweat. "It's a routine procedure, Prompto," he'd said. "I'll be fine," he'd said. "What's the worst that could happen?" he'd said, and _boy_ does Prompto wish he never had. Maybe then he wouldn't have jinxed himself to a tooth removal gone wrong, and one _fuck_ of an infection getting hold of the empty socket. Maybe then his eyes wouldn't be dark and glassy with pain and fever, maybe then his jaw wouldn't be tender to touch and painful to move. Maybe -

Maybe, maybe, _maybe._ It doesn't fucking matter. Ignis is in pain and he can't _help_ except to fetch another bottle of water from the fridge, a fresh straw so the shock of cold doesn't have Ignis writhing and wailing in agony, another round of painkillers with antibiotics soon to follow. He's never felt so bloody useless, and he hates it.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

There they are again, those pesky seconds, circling around on his wrist and blinking in neon green numbers on the bedside table. Green, because red reminds him of armoured bodies and screams in the night and a burst of flame from the weaponry cuffed to their wrists instead of hands. Green, because of too many daemons sneaking past his guard and snapping their in his face. Green, because red reminds him of magic-touched eyes in shadowed caves and Noct's laughter ahead, so near and so far and he can never run fast enough to catch him. Green, because he remembers the colour of the embers and fire licking at Ignis's skin when he'd found him in Altissia, too weak to _crawl_ and yet scrabbling at broken stone anyway, cutting his hands open and bloody as he grasped and _pulled_ and dragged the entire length of his body closer and closer to where their fallen friend, their _prince_ , lay in the middle of Leviathan's rampage.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

They're so fast, these seconds, and yet they can't come quick enough. They mark how long Ignis has been screaming in the midst of his nightmares, clawing at bedding and skin alike. They mark how long he has left to wait while Ignis huddles in the quiet of the bathroom, plastered to the floor or pressing the scarred side of his face to the tiles, desperate for _cold_ to chase away the feeling of burning alive from the inside out. There is danger in these seconds, he knows, one careless touch will have a blade in his gut or lightning searing across his skin or a hand clamped tight round his throat. He has to wait, as long as it takes, for Ignis to come to his remaining senses, to remember where he is and why he can't see, to know Prompto is friend, not foe. How he longs to go to him, reach out to him, gather him in his arms and hug him tight and swear he'll never be hurt like that again, not so long as there's breath in Prompto's body. But he can't. _Not yet_.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

A week. He's been out on the road for a week. He hasn't heard from Gladio in three. They've rescued some civillians, families torn up and broken, lost a Glaive in the process. They're still days out from the city, travel hampered by injuries and supply runs and all the fucking daemons crawling out of the woodwork as soon as they catch a whiff of blood, of _human_. But he'll make it back, he has to, he promised.

It's not home in a different city when Insomnia's in ruins, but it's something pretty damn close. His heart waits for him there, held in the capable hands relearning how to fight second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Hands on his face, his chest, frantically patting him all over. A voice calling his name, fuzzing in and out like a badly tuned radio, so afraid. Ignis hovering over him, when he finally figures out how to blink his eyes open, squint against the bright light, _sunlight_.

"Come back come back come back, don't you dare die on me, not _now,"_

"He did it," he says. Gasps, really, because _fuck_ but talking hurts, and his throat hurts, and his chest, and his head. And everything, really. But then diving headfirst into a suicide fight against daemons is bound to do that, right?

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

It's sunlight. The dawning of a new day in _ten years_. He can't believe it, he doesn't _want_ to believe it, heart splintering in his chest with the realisation his best friend's gone to the eternal slumber for the world to finally wake up again. But even with the heartache, there's relief, because he's not alone in this knowledge, in this pain, in knowing the price they've each had to pay. Day is cruel to Ignis, casting judgement on the dirt and daemon gunk still curling off his clothing in black soot and embers, and Prompto doesn't give a single fuck about any of it as he slides down beside him and leans his head on his shoulder.

They stay like that for a while, his wristwatch marking the time he... _doesn't_ , a first in so many years. Seconds trickling by and for once he doesn't count them. He doesn't need to, not anymore.

"We made it," Ignis rasps and, when Prompto tips his head just so to catch his gaze, leans down for a kiss.


End file.
